


Reveille

by egocentrifuge



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: M/M, alcohol use, born again spiritualism?, i was going to say that I could explain but noooooope, some internalized homophobia, the survivalizers, weed use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egocentrifuge/pseuds/egocentrifuge
Summary: "Shit," Ryder says. "You telling me that for two years you lived naked in the desertillegally?"Red as they are from his jubilation, Raindrop's eyes still gleam in the firelight. "Brother, the only laws I follow are mother nature's.""Hot damn." Ryder's glad the words don't come out as tight as Ryder's chest suddenly is, but he could do without the giggle that bubbles up after. "Well shit, I'll drink to that.""Smoke to it," Raindrop suggests--and there's that damn grin again. He offers the pipe with a delicately cocked wrist; now that Ryder knows to look for it (knows that Raindrop's capable of it, shit), he can recognize the teasing for what it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is 3.6k of self-indulgent character exploration, first-time pot smoking, and born-again spiritualism based on [one three-minute segment](https://youtu.be/7sDsFQOMyr8). I have no excuses.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying:_   
>  _Hear the drums of morning play;_   
>  _Hark, the empty highways crying_   
>  _“Who’ll beyond the hills away?”_
> 
> _A.E. Housman, Reveille_

It's been three months since Raindrop came out of the forest like a cryptid and saved Ryder's hopelessly lost, sleep-deprived, and increasingly dehydrated ass from his ill-fated hike. He'd known when he strayed off the path that it was a damn fool decision, but from all his research the most viral survival segments were those with an element of danger. Too late he'd realized that the stunts were all staged. It was easy to triumph over nature in a studio setting, but Ryder didn't have insurance agents and studio execs hovering like black helicopters--it was just him and a handheld camera. And Raindrop, there at the end, when Ryder'd been down to half a protein bar and his last SD card.

After the entire harrowing experience had been edited down to a snappy fifteen minutes, Raindrop's unwitting rescue had turned out damn near heroic. In the moment, it'd felt like a fever dream. Ryder hadn't been entirely sure the beaded, bedazzled giant who'd happened upon him miles from civilization wasn't an id-inspired hallucination until Raindrop had half-carried Ryder to a trailer and tried to get him to eat homemade muesli. After it'd become clear Raindrop wasn't some final temptation in Ryder's personal purgatory, it'd been easy to hightail it back to the road.

Four weeks later the video had half a million views, and Ryder'd been forced to backtrack through the forest he still wasn't sure how Raindrop got his battered camper van through. Ryder'd honestly been expecting it to be harder to sell the off-the-grid hippy on the idea of the show. In the end, he'd shown Raindrop the video, a handful of comments calling for more of the "tall guy and the stressed dude," and Raindrop had fixed Ryder with a dreamy stare and said, "The Survivalizers."

So that had been that. And now, two months and a handful of videos later, Ryder's apparently close enough with the mountain recluse that they're "due for a bonding experience."

At least Raindrop had told him he could bring alcohol.

The lawn chair out in front of Raindrop's camper creaks as Ryder lowers himself into it, but the heap of rust and stained canvas doesn't collapse under his weight. He lets out a breath and eases back from the edge of his seat. Unbelievably, the thing is actually pretty comfortable--better than the stiff-backed chair Ryder has at his place, anyways. Huh. Camping gear as furniture, not a half-bad idea. Maybe Raindrop's not completely--

Ryder cuts the thought off at the pass as Raindrop pads back into the light from where he'd been "collecting himself," feet bare and shirt discarded in the thirty seconds since he'd disappeared inside.

"Are you morally opposed to shoes?" he asks as Raindrop drops down beside him, because it seems like a safer question than _why are you half-naked._ This close Ryder can see a constellation of freckles across Raindrop's back. Ryder feels guilty enough at the urge to make a star map out of them, but then Raindrop looks up from his hands and then all Ryder can see is crooked teeth in a crookeder smile.

"We don't find paths with our eyes, brother," Raindrop says, in that damn tone of voice like he's imparting knowledge and not speaking nonsense. Ryder huffs; Raindrop smiles all the wider. "Barefoot is my preferred state of being, as it was for most at the colony."

"Colony," Ryder repeats. "You've said that a coupla times now. What're you, some kind of alien?" He drags his eyes away from Raindrop's smile to try and suss out what he's holding with no luck--dude's hands are too big. Ryder washes away the flush that that observation causes with a gulp of beer, asks, "Where's this colony at?"

"No living creature is alien to Gaia," says Raindrop, as sagely obtuse as ever; then, as he raises his hands: "Nevada."

Ryder nearly misses the _schick_ of a lighter on account of snorting. He doesn't miss the smell, though, nor the glass contraption Raindrop's holding against his lips. He doesn't miss Raindrop's eyes on him, neither.

"So your colony's in Nevada," Ryder muses. He does his best to ignore the way smoke curls up over Raindrop's lip and back into his nose. "There's that military base out there, air force. That where they're keeping your people?"

Raindrop doesn't reply for a long moment as the smoke trickles back out his mouth--not that Ryder's still staring. When he speaks, it's eerily calm.

"Not my people. Not anymore."

It's as close to serious as Ryder's ever heard him. He clamps down on the sudden urge to fidget. "Shit," he manages as the silence stretches. His mind's gone blank otherwise. When Raindrop strikes the lighter again, Ryder grasps at the straw before it can slip away. "That pot?"

Twin streams of smoke come blasting out Raindrop's nose before he's coughing hard, one hand pressed over his mouth to hold in what sounds like his lungs trying to fight their way out of his body. Ryder's clapping him on the back before he can remember that Raindrop's shirtless; his hand connects with Raindrop's bare skin with an almighty slap and Raindrop curls almost in half as his hacking intensifies.

Ryder's clutching his stinging hand and has just about convinced himself he's delivered a killing blow when Raindrop throws his head back and the wheezing resolves itself into wild laughter.

"Oh," Raindrop's saying, or trying to--his voice is tight and strained, and Ryder thinks there might be tears in his eyes. "Oh, brother, oh--"

"What," Ryder says. He thinks he should be offended, but most of his attention is caught up trying to commit Raindrop's cackling to memory. His hands itch for his camera before he realizes there's a hand-shaped welt raising on Raindrop's skin and they start itching for other reasons.

"Pot," Raindrop repeats, definitely crying now. "Your face, oh--"

"What?" Ryder insists. "It was a legitimate question." His voice sounds strange, too; it takes him a minute to realize it's because he's fighting laughter himself. By the time Raindrop's calmed down enough to speak Ryder's jaw is aching from the unfamiliar smile stretching it.

"There's no bad blood. For eight seasons I lived in a nudist colony in the Mojave." Raindrop waves a hand as Ryder takes his turn trying not to choke at this new tidbit of information. "The colony dug its roots too deep the last time it migrated and wasn't able to scatter before the net closed in."

Ryder parses through this quick enough that he's worried he's starting to resonate with Raindrop like one of the healing crystals hanging from his rusted awning. "Shit," he says. "You telling me that for two years you lived naked in the desert _illegally?"_

Red as they are from his jubilation, Raindrop's eyes still gleam in the firelight. "Brother, the only laws I follow are mother nature's."

"Hot damn." Ryder's glad the words don't come out as tight as Ryder's chest suddenly is, but he could do without the giggle that bubbles up after. "Well shit, I'll drink to that."

"Smoke to it," Raindrop suggests--and there's that damn grin again. He offers the pipe with a delicately cocked wrist; now that Ryder knows to look for it (knows that Raindrop's capable of it, shit), he can recognize the teasing for what it is.

"You're crazy," he says finally. "Get that shit away from me."

Raindrop bites his lip. "Pot," he corrects, eyes twinkling. "Homegrown, against your human laws, on the land I'm living off without permission."

Ryder shakes his head. "Fucking alien," he mutters, fending off the urge to laugh again. "You're a goddamn degenerate."

"Takes one to know one." There's something warm and too-knowing in Raindrop's voice as he says it; Ryder drowns the nervous squirming in his belly with the rest of his beer. It's still his first, but the world seems changed when he hauls himself out of the chair.

Bonding indeed. If there was any service out here Ryder'd be pulling up their channel to make sure there hadn't been any more of that dry humor that he'd missed.

"You sure you don't want one?" Ryder asks as he crunches his way to the cooler. Raindrop doesn't respond; when Ryder glances back he's wreathed in smoke again. Ryder takes it as a no. The light from the campfire doesn't quite reach his truck when he gets there, hops up into the bed of it to grab another drink. He pauses after popping the top to catch his breath. Shit, he's turned into a lightweight.

Or maybe he's just dizzy on account of still being able to make out his handprint on Raindrop's back.

Goddamn. It's been a hot minute since Ryder's seen any action, hasn't it? That has to be the only reason he's as parched as when Raindrop had stumbled onto him. Not that he hadn't--well, had a bit of a crisis in the conscience department when six foot six of golden god had quite literally bumped into him, but that was just… the dehydration. Ryder'd been confused, delusional. He's not sure what his excuse is this time. Could be that the outline of his hand on Raindrop's body has gone and reminded Ryder of his urge to strangle the bastard at several points during their last adventure. That doesn't explain the temptation to fit his mouth over the marks and suck a bruise into each fingertip, though.

Ryder sees Raindrop turn to look for him because he's still staring, and shoves all that contemplation garbage to the side so it can come back and work him into a cold panic some other time, in private. Men didn't do a damn fool thing like have feelings in front of other men.

"I meant to ask," Raindrop calls. "Would you like some mead?"

Ryder considers his still-full beer against how badly he wants to be drunk right now.

"Sure," he decides, tilting it back. His fingers are buzzing from either the booze or the effort it takes to keep himself from mirroring Raindrop's pleased smile by the time he crushes the can underfoot and tosses it in the back of his truck to recycle later.

The mead, as it turns out, is homemade and annoyingly tasty. It's also dangerously alcoholic. Ryder isn't even halfway through his first cup--a misshapen ceramic thing Ryder's entirely unsurprised to learn Raindrop made--when he finds himself leaning forward unabashedly to watch Raindrop pack what Ryder has been informed is a bowl. His rings are catching the firelight in interesting ways and his fingers are devastatingly deft and Ryder isn't even trying not to be totally entranced at this point.

"I've never smoked," he tells Raindrop, who's kind enough not to laugh. "Kid got thrown out of scouts for hotboxing his tent at Ockanickon, and after that I couldn't risk it."

"Ockanickon, he was a Lenape chief," Raindrop says, then, "You were a scout?"

Ryder takes a second to process the fact that Raindrop knows anything about the Delaware peoples before pride kicks back in and he's speaking. "I earned eighty-nine badges. Woulda been more but I don't trust horses." Ryder frowns; he's conquered that fear. He's fearless now, save the end of days and the Illuminati. "Didn't," he amends.

If Raindrop notices the slip-up he doesn't say anything. "Did you eagle?" he asks instead, glancing up from his work.

Ryder grins. "Damn straight I eagled. Only kid in my year."

Raindrop smiles right back at him, and Ryder flushes with pleasure even before Raindrop asks, sweet and earnest, "What was your project?" like he really wants to know.

"Worked with a bird sanctuary, helped 'em expand the roosts for their permanent residents, raptors n'at." Ryder isn't sure the burst of sweetness on his tongue is from the sip of mead he takes or Raindrop's approving hum. He's helpless to go on. "Picked up falconry for a while because of it--ethically, you know, all that. Were those that just needed some help before they could be released."

"That's wonderful, Ryder," Raindrop says, like he means it. Ryder ducks his head to hide his too-warm cheeks and nearly misses Raindrop's question.

"Now that you're not in danger of being removed from your troop, would you like to try smoking?"

Ryder surveys the frayed tips of his shoelaces as he pretends he's thinking it over. When he risks a glance up Raindrop's watching him patiently.

"Shit," Ryder decides. "Why not?"

It's not that he feels pressured, hell, he doesn't think Raindrop cares one way or the other. It's just--Raindrop's fuzzy and relaxed and everything Ryder's never been. Even drunk Ryder knows better than to think that's the pot, but god. For two months now Ryder's been grappling with the desire to reach out and grasp what Raindrop has, that indescribable aura of peace and calm. Shit, he's been fighting not to just straight-up grab Raindrop, though what he'd do after that is a mess of static and redacted dreams he's not going to let himself consider even now.

Except as he watches Raindrop shuffles forward to rest his elbows on Ryder's knees and, gosh, it takes the rest of Ryder's mead to muffle what his id tells him to do with that.

"This is the carb," Raindrop says, effectively cutting off Ryder's guilty spiral. He's pointing to a little hole Ryder hadn't noticed on the bulb of the pipe. "Here, hold it so you can cover it with your thumb."

The glass is warm from Raindrop's hands. "Like this?" Ryder blusters, resisting the urge to speak more softly with Raindrop so close.

Raindrop has no such qualms. "That's it, brother," he praises softly. "It might be best if I--" He holds up the lighter; Ryder seals his mouth over the end of the pipe without stopping to think where it's been. Raindrop goes on as the tiny flame dances in his hand: "You should inhale slowly while it's lit. When I take the lighter away there'll still be some smoke left in the pipe, but don't feel like you need to take it all in."

Ryder wants to tell Raindrop to stop babying him and light the damn thing, but before he can, Raindrop is, and Ryder forgets his impatience in the face of nerves as he rushes to take his first hit.

"Slow down," Raindrop urges, too late; the smoke's already in Ryder's lungs and fuck if it doesn't immediately set him coughing.

"Shit," he manages, or maybe just _sh,_ as his throat flutters around the word and set off another round of coughing. Raindrop must take the pipe back, because Ryder's got one hand on his chest and the other balled up over his mouth as he struggles to keep his insides where they are. His eyes are watering by the time he feels like he can breathe normal again.

"Hotter'n I thought it'd be," he confesses, searching out Raindrop's eyes. They're a lot closer than they were before. Ryder has enough time to wonder what color they are before Raindrop's hand lands on Ryder's cheek and every question Ryder's never asked himself solidifies into a jolt of pure adrenaline that threatens to stop his too-quick heart.

"Oh," Ryder says. Raindrop kisses him.

It's different from every other time Ryder's kissed somebody in that his hands land on bare skin instead of fabric when he throws them out, meaning he's got nothing to grasp at desperately except Raindrop's naked shoulders. They're warm from the banked fire, almost hot. Ryder would be disappointed at not being able to feel Raindrop's freckles under his palms except that he's not thinking at all. If he were, he'd be shoving Raindrop away, not dragging him closer, spreading his legs in the lawn chair to feel the heat of Raindrop's chest all up and down his own. Ryder gasps at the contact and Raindrop mirrors him, except instead of sucking in air like he's drowning Raindrop's blowing a steady stream into Ryder's lungs and--

"Oh," Ryder says again. Smoke curls from his mouth with the word, trembling in accusation between them now that Ryder's pulled back. It might well be the visualization of Ryder's last breath leaving his body. Raindrop hadn't been--he'd been trying to--

"Oh," Raindrop echoes, reverently, and then his mouth's on Ryder's again and _oh,_ this is different, this is worlds apart from any awkward fumbling Ryder's ever screwed his eyes shut for and just prayed to be over.

Raindrop _kisses_ him. There's a hand on Ryder's chest now, right over where his heart's threatening to break through, pushing back as if to say, _I'm here, I feel you._ Ryder believes it. Believes, with every shred of faith he has, that Raindrop is holding him together, that if he takes back what's been given a dam is going to burst inside Ryder and he'll bleed out here in this chair, die like he would've if Raindrop hadn't've delivered him.

"Shh," Raindrop soothes, and Ryder realizes he's been speaking, that the alcohol has him mumbling into Raindrop's mouth between the life being breathed back into him.

"I mean it," Ryder rasps. "I mean it, I--"

"I believe you," Raindrop says.

Ryder believes him.

This time, when Raindrop kisses him, Ryder kisses back.

An eternity must have passed by the time they break apart. When Ryder cracks his eyes open the tent of night's in tatters, the ship of sunrise burning through the canopy. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have, because Raindrop's head is pillowed in his lap and there's dew prickling his skin.

"Raindrop," Ryder grates out. His lips hurt, but his head hurts more. "Raindrop, c'mon," he urges when Raindrop doesn't stir. This time, fingers flex against Ryder's chest, twitching where they're buried between two buttons. Raindrop shifts a moment later... then goes still.

Ryder makes a sound of annoyance loud enough it makes his temples throb and does his damndest to stand up with Raindrop still draped across him. He doesn't make it very far on account of Raindrop whining and gripping Ryder's shirt hard enough he hears something tear, but at least now his eyes are open and he's blinking blearily at the dead coals.

"Gaia help me," Raindrop croaks. He sounds as rough as Ryder feels. "We could have started a forest fire."

Ryder grunts, unimpressed. "We could have just as easily frozen to death." Not likely in the summer, but then, neither was a banked fire carefully placed by two survival experts to spark into something more. About as likely as something sparking up between said survival experts.

_Fuck_ but Ryder's head hurts.

"Help me up, brother," Raindrop rasps. Ryder opens his mouth to point out that he can't well do that with Raindrop on top of him, but when he looks down Raindrop's expression is pinched.

"What is it?"

Raindrop winces. "My back."

Ryder doesn't point out that it was a damn fool decision to sleep on his knees hunched over because he knows why Raindrop did it. Instead, he leans down to get an armful of hippy and takes as much of Raindrop's weight as he can as he hauls them both to their feet. What sounds like every joint in Raindrop's body cracks in the process.

"What are you, an old man?" Ryder mutters. Raindrop's leaning on him heavily, brows furrowed and chapped lip between his teeth, but he still manages to smile at the question.

"Older than you think," he allows. "Help me inside, I think we could both use some willow bark tea."

"It'd be a damn sight easier to just pop a coupla aspirin," Ryder grouches, but together they hobble up the steps and into Raindrop's trailer and somehow manage to scrape together enough brain cells to get the stove working.

By the time Ryder's wrapped in a quilt that looks like it might be older than he is and sipping from a lopsided ceramic bowl--Raindrop only owned one cup, and neither of them were about to go back outside to get it--he feels marginally more human. Not any better, mind you, but more human. Anxiety is human, and Ryder has it in spades. He’s human as hell.

Either Raindrop isn't an alien after all and experiences human things like regret or his back has yet to thaw, because he's doing nothing to turn Ryder from his thoughts, just sitting and ruminating in palpable misery on his side of the cramped table.

If the auras Raindrop had told him about that first hike actually existed, Ryder's pretty sure theirs would both be yellow right about now.

"You got any food in here?" Ryder finally asks, determined to get through the morning one way or another. Raindrop drags his eyes away from where they've been fixed on a hunk of tourmaline.

He clears his throat. "I subsist on the energy of the sun and moon."

Silence stretches between them as Ryder's hungover brain attempts to process this.

"You're fucking with me," he says at last, half-incredulous, half... relieved.

Raindrop holds his gaze steadily.

(Green, Ryder realizes. His eyes are green.)

Raindrop gestures to a cabinet after he finally breaks down and laughs, that same cracked sound from the night before with a side order of the same shit Ryder’s feeling. Ryder finds himself following Raindrop's fingers through the air instead of looking where they're pointed.

"There's muesli," Raindrop says, "but--well, I only have the one bowl."

"Of course you do," Ryder snorts, and thinks--to hell with it. "You want to go to Denny's?"

When Raindrop grins, his teeth are crooked. "Shit, why not?" he says, managing to make it sound like an adage and not profanity. As Ryder fights a smile Raindrops leverages himself up and wanders towards his bedroom, presumably to find a shirt. Before he disappears Ryder sees the faint imprint of a hand across Raindrop's back--for a moment he swears he's got one to match burned into his chest.

The world's changed, but it's still spinning. And Ryder's not going to waste this second chance at life Raindrop's given him.

**Author's Note:**

> _Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber_   
>  _Sunlit pallets never thrive;_   
>  _Morns abed and daylight slumber_   
>  _Were not meant for man alive._
> 
> find me on tumblr at egocentrifuge.tumblr.com


End file.
